Dessert Dangers
by LindsayQ
Summary: Napoleon's Friday night ended on a rather sour note. Literally.


From his prostrate position on the narrow gurney Napoleon didn't dare make any sudden movements. He didn't think his friends heart nor his battered body would have taken too kindly to him falling to the hard floor beneath. He carefully rolled his neck to the side and looked at his partner beside him. Said partner looked back at him with unreadable blue eyes, making him smile despite his current poorly state.

"Admittedly, IK," he wheezed, pulling the oxygen mask far enough away from his mouth not to muffle his words, "this wasn't how I wanted my Friday night go."

The Russian's hand came out of nowhere, grasped Napoleon's wrist, and with far less effort than it should have taken, pushed his hand back down so the mask was once more over his mouth. "The mask shall do you no good if you don't leave it in place."

Napoleon smiled again beneath the mask, and reached out with his left hand to pat the hand still grasping his wrist. "It wasn't your fault, Illya." Initially, Napoleon worried that he'd not been understood because of the damn mask, due to the lack of immediate reaction from his friend.

However, that all changed within a literal blink of his eyes. The look he received in response from Illya left no doubt as to whether he'd been heard or not.

The man sighed, dropped his hand away from his friend completely, and tucked it underneath his thigh and looked away in abhorrence, of himself, probably, as well as the situation. "Of course, it is."

He eyed his blond friend for a few seconds more, and then decided to give into his exhaustion, because whatever he said in reply would just be shot down anyway, and let his eyes finally drift shut. Right before sleep won a handful of seconds later, a thought rolled to the forefront of his mind, something that he knew had to be said as soon as possible. With a little shake of his head he managed to drag one eye open and then the other. He tried to grin at his friend then, but only winced. "I didn't know…" he paused to force air back into his lungs with a large inhale of oxygen/steroidal mix currently being fed through the mask, "so, how could you?"

It'd all started nearly three hours earlier, in the main dinning room of the Russian Tea Room. He'd taken Illya there for an early Thanksgiving in case they were called away and missed the chance to celebrate. After a dinner consisting of one of the finest lamb chops Napoleon had ever had in his life, and something called Kulebiaka for his friend, which Illya had enjoyed with just as must gusto, the desserts had come.

And, that's when all the trouble started.

Illya had decided on the Blintzes almost as soon as he opened the menu. Napoleon, however, took his time and perused it a bit longer. Initially, he'd wanted the crème brulee. However, upon Illya suggestion of something called a lemon Smetana pie, he quickly changed his mind and happily complied. The pie, as it turned out, was, for intent and purposes, a normal pie, with a tantalising zest infused lemon puree filling of a pale-yellow colour, and something enjoyed by all in Russia, Illya said, and something Napoleon enjoyed.

Or would have.

Unfortunately, it wasn't long after his first bite that everything changed suddenly. Suddenly, even before he put his fork down, he began to choke. Suddenly his finger tips started to both burn and numb at the same time, and the pie quickly disappeared from the table in front of him. He felt a hand on his shoulder but didn't have time to acknowledge it before he had to press his pins and needles filled right hand against his suddenly aching chest in an effort quiet his suddenly pounding heart. Half a second later, to ward off the blackness suddenly threatening to blind him, he fisted his hand and started wildly hitting his sternum to draw more air into his suddenly weakened lungs, and if possible, keep himself from passing out.

Just before he did pass out panic set in, right about the split second it took to realise the numbness in his fingertips had spread to all four limbs.

When he woke up again, however briefly it may have been, it was in an ambulance. And, thanks to that minute sliver of cognition left in his scrambled mind, Napoleon managed to catch words like Anaphylatic shock and epinephrine float around seconds before he felt an oxygen mask get shoved over his face and he thankfully passed out again.

"Guess I'll need the "No known Allergies" on my file voided on Monday, huh?"

Illya's eyes rolled skyward at his statement, but he nodded sharply in agreement nonetheless.


End file.
